August 2013

August 30, 2013

The only part of New
York I hate is Times Square. It's not really New York's fault though.
It's just so crowded with tourists that it's hard to get somewhere fast.
And get there fast is what I always want to do whenever I find myself
going to a jazz club or Broadway show in that neck of the skyscrapers.
That and poke my left eye out.

It seems like people only travel in groups around Times
Square and they are all looking up as they walk directly into me. And if
they are not walking into me, they are just IN MY WAY. I'll pick a
subway station an extra 10 blocks away from my destination if it means finding
a less populated path--even in high heels. Even in high heels in the rain. Even in high heels in the rain without an umbrella.

August 28, 2013

It’s not just New
York I love; I also love New Yorkers.
They get involved, they help, they tell you exactly what they
think. It’s that last part that some
people mistake for rudeness. That’s a
total misconception though, except in the case of the gatekeepers of hip
restaurants.

On one of our visits several years ago, we took my friend
Vicki to Ellis Island. We hopped on
the subway to South Ferry. At each stop
along the way, the conductor made an announcement, “For all passengers going to
South Ferry, grschs flrrsch ssshhwwwr grch schh schhr cschr.” By the third
stop, Vicki cracked the code and translated for us. If we were getting out at South Ferry, we
needed to be in one of the first three cars.

We spent the next stretch of the ride debating whether or
not we were indeed in one of the first three cars.
Now I’m just telling you that in California, when you hear tourists
trying to figure something out, you don’t usually jump in unless they ask. You pretend that you don’t hear them. You think it’s rude to eavesdrop.

But in New York City, perhaps because people are living life
right up against one another, they operate under no such charade. The red-heeled woman a few seats down, leaned over her Coach bag and said,
“You’re not in one of the first three cars.
Get out at the next stop and move down two cars.”

Yesterday on the subway, I heard someone saying “Spring
Street.” But I didn’t know who said
it. I did know that we were on an
express that didn’t stop at Spring Street, but I wasn’t sure whom to warn. I was willing to be a New Yorker and butt
in. At 14th Street, I looked
around, hoping that someone would ask the question so I could know exactly who needed
my help.

Instead, the guy standing in front of me turned to a group
of what sounded like German tourists and said, “Are you looking for Spring Street?”
They all nodded. “Get out here, take
that train across the platform. This one
doesn’t stop at Spring.”

They rushed off, thanking him. I know they didn’t think he was rude for eavesdropping.

The day before that we were walking up Lexington right
behind a white-haired woman holding a large pizza box with both hands. A young, 20-something gal was walking toward
her. Pizza lady asked her to scooch up
one of the straps of her purse that was sliding down her arm. Both her hands were occupied with that pizza
box. Twenty-something replaced the purse strap to its proper position and both went
on their way, barely missing a step.

Yesterday, we took our friends for a walk across the
Brooklyn Bridge. Strolling the Brooklyn Heights
Promenade, we admired all the cute dogs, along with our view of the Manhattan
skyline across the East River. A
one-year-old Basset Hound named Scallop was rebelling. Her owner seemed to want to walk, but Scallop
preferred to sit. That gave us a chance
to give Scallop some lovin' while we chatted with her owner.

Across the path there were two ladies sitting on a bench with
what looked like a white Lab/Beagle mix.
I wondered aloud what kind of dog that was as my friend Mike was
already beelining over there to ask her owners.

Turns out they were not her owners; she was a stray they had
just found wandering around on her own. They
were waiting for another friend they had just called to come with a leash so they could walk the dog over to the local vet.
She had a collar and tag, but only with the vet’s office information, not
with her owner’s number. Plus something was
wrong with her eye, maybe an infection or something. They speculated that she had been living on
the street for some time. Mike told them
how great it was that they were taking the time to rescue the dog, and they
said how much they appreciated his appreciation.

I sure hope that story has a happy ending.

I’ve seen people jump in to help strangers lug their bags up stairs. I’ve watched as the toughest
looking guy covered in tattoos jumped up to yield his seat to a pregnant woman
on the subway. I’ve seen people that
look like they don’t have very much themselves reach in their pockets to give
money to a homeless person. Sure, I’ve
seen plenty of not-so-nice stuff, but for the most part what I see from New
Yorkers warms my heart.

August 27, 2013

This is our fifth month-long stay in Manhattan. Even before we started our longer stays here we used to come out for a week each year, almost always in August. Most people are baffled by our
attraction to August in New York because of the weather. We started this tradition because this is
when the U.S Open tennis tournament is.
Some sessions have been sticky, scorching hot and others have been rained
out. It’s hard to know what you’re going
to get, sometimes even until the day of your tickets.

But I love the evenings here, joining the nightlife in a sleeveless dress
without a sweater. Actually, the weather
this trip has been fabulous, even during the day. Ironically, the weather our home-exchangers
are enduring in California is hotter than it is out here. It hasn't even been very humid this trip. We’ve had days mostly in the 70’s and low 80’s,
only a tiny bit of rain---unfortunately some of it last night, raining out the Federer match of opening night at Flushing Meadows.

But enough about the weather, it’s more than just the
weather. There was an
article in the New York Times a couple months ago about those of us that
migrate to NYC when everyone else is escaping.
In fact some of the folks profiled in the article have second homes in
the city that they escape to for the summer, from places like Florida:

Yet
while Manhattanites fight traffic to get out of the city, a rare breed of
part-timer is breezing in from the other direction. In something of a reverse
migration, these summertime city dwellers trade their retreats near the beach,
lake or mountains for pieds-à-terre and long-term rentals in Manhattan,
tolerating the heat, humidity and pungent warm-weather smells in exchange for a
more laid-back New York.

Here
they find everything from open parking spots to prime tables at hot
restaurants, as well as streets and parks brimming with outdoor events and
plenty of air-conditioned museums and shops.

They left out home-exchangers,
but I totally identify with this breed. There’s
so much going on here in the summer.
Bryant Park, Central Park, South Street Seaport, and Hudson River Park
all host outdoor
movies, jazz concerts, blues festivals, and other events—all
of it free. It’s easy to get into
restaurants, jazz clubs, and Broadway shows, and there are fewer crowds at many
museums, at least during the week.

And that’s just the organized stuff. I am constantly amazed at the talent that we
just stumble upon strolling the streets.
Last Wednesday, we enjoyed lunch from a couple food trucks at Hudson Square Lent Space. We went down there because a jazz pianist, Joe Alterman, was playing
for free over the lunch hour. We
discovered him last year playing with Houston Pearson at Dizzy’s Jazz club—he
basically stole the show. Anyway,
Wednesday night, we watched Jeff Lorber, Chuck Loeb, and Everette Harp at Iridium and then hopped the 1 train to
Christopher Street to catch the New York Funk Exchange
at Groove.

Just when I thought we were done for the night, we walked to
the Astor Place subway station to catch the 6 train home and there was a
wonderful young singer/guitarist serenading us for the eight minutes until
our train arrived. It’s hit or miss in
subway station entertainment, but I’m sure we’ll hear more from this talented, soulful
musician in the future.

Our friends arrived in town on Saturday and we took them to
Murray’s for a wine and cheese pairing class. We walked out of the shop and took our place in the crowd that was pouring
out into Bleecker Street, everyone clapping along to a lively 50’s and 60’s Motown
band.

And that was after our morning entertainment in Central Park. After our walk around the reservoir, we sat down on a bench next to a pair of jazz musicians jamming on the guitar and trumpet. I'd say they were only in their 20’s.
They played a Sonny Rollins tune and we told them how great they
were. They asked us what we wanted to
hear and then proceeded to fulfill request after request.

No one else was really watching—mostly people strolling by
with their dogs or children in strollers, just casting a passing glance. Although everyone was entertained by one
delighted little two-year old girl who forced her parents to stop while she wiggled with the music for a
few minutes.

You could spend an entire afternoon in Washington Square
Park being entertained. First start at
the MacDougal side where the Jazz Collective usually
draws a crowd, Rasheed playing two trumpets at a time. Then proceed to the fountain by the arch to
see the guys that do all the acrobatics and politically incorrect humor. At the other end of the park is the antidote
to the anxiety you incurred while watching those guys do back flips over
terrified audience members. At the Washington Square East entrance a
classical pianist has somehow managed to get a baby grand out there. Sit down, lean back, and listen to the
notes dance up into the shady canopy.

So much talent here, so much competition, I hope they all
can make their dreams come true. I don’t
envy the tough road they have, but I do envy that they don’t seem to ever want
to retire. I’ve seen some pretty successful old musicians, playing up until practically the day they die. And I don’t think they are doing it just for
the money.

August 19, 2013

We’ve just finished up the first week of our annual
excursion to New York City. I’m barely
getting enough time to sleep, let alone write a blog post; but I will
definitely write soon about my adventures.
In the meantime, I wanted to introduce you to a new blogger.

Last week a writer interviewed me for a magazine article about
retirement. She asked me why I knew that
I wanted to retire so young, practically from the moment I started
working. I’m still pondering that
question, but in the meantime, I wanted to introduce you to a new blogger that
seems to be infected with the same ailment.
He’s 25 years old and he already knows that he wants to work toward
retiring as early as possible.

On the first day of my
first ‘real’ job after finishing university, my boss gathered all of the new
hires into a meeting room. A group of around ten, all college educated, fresh
faced and wearing suits slightly too large for us. One by one, my boss asked us
why we had were there – every answer echoing a variation of ‘to establish my
career in finance’ or ‘because I want to help our clients succeed’.
But why was my boss there? What made him get up and come to work in the
morning? We found out soon enough – ‘I’m only here for one thing – money.’

Well the money wasn’t
great, and the job wasn’t either. Within three months only a few of us newbies
remained, by six months I was the only one. After progressing as far through
the company as I felt possible, I put in my two weeks notice and moved on to
greener pastures. The grass may have been greener, but one thing stuck with me.
The only reason I go to work is because I need to get paid, establish a life
for myself.

Don’t get me wrong,
most of the time I quite enjoy my job – but in the middle of winter when I need
to drag myself out of bed in the dark and out into the freezing cold world I
wonder what it would be like to be able to sleep in. If I didn’t need to go to
work to make a living, I wouldn’t go. I travelled to Thailand on holidays for a
month a few years back, spending my days lounging around hotels, eating street
food and riding elephants. I was miserable the whole first month after my
return – rudely reawakened to a world where my workload hadn’t paused in my
absence, but merely piled up for my return.

This is how I decided
at age 25 that there had to be a better way to spend my days. I don’t want to
go to a job just to earn money to buy things I don’t need. I’d much rather
spend my time elsewhere – renovate a property, maybe learn how to build a piece
of furniture. Of course if I relied on these activities to earn a living, they would
become a chore and I would grow to dislike them. It’s also highly improbable
that I could make enough money to live comfortably doing these things as I have
no training or skill.

For me, financial
independence is freedom. I aim to eliminate my debts and build a portfolio of
investments which provides sufficient income for me to live comfortably without
being tied to an occupation. This will allow me to spend my days doing
activities I enjoy, learning skills I might have never considered. I’ll probably
always work in some capacity, but being able to dictate the amount and type of
work is the goal.

Sounds easy right?
After all, I’m young and earn a reasonable income. Despite this, my journey
will take me the next decade and quite probably longer. I have a mortgage of
over $350,000 to clear, followed by squirrelling away enough assets to provide
for my living. Most people spend a lifetime getting to that point, and many
still fall short and end up retiring on government assistance. In my mind, it’s
worth the time, effort and sacrifice to secure my future and buy back years of
my time otherwise wasted. As they say – ‘live like no one else now, so that you
can live like no one else later’.

August 05, 2013

I confess. I
really miss Stella. Sure, it’s
easier to vacuum the floor without her attacking the vacuum cleaner. And my house stays tidier in the first place. But I miss that morning cuddling time when would
I let her out of her crate and she wagged her whole body in my lap while we
showered one another with kisses. And
after her breakfast, she would nap under my chair while I read the morning
news. The news doesn’t seem quite so
agitating when I’m in the presence of a peaceful puppy.

By the last day of her stay with us, I learned that if I
took her out of her crate at 6am to go outside and do her business, I could
bring her up into our bed for another hour and a half bonus round of sleep. If only I had discovered that at the
beginning of her stay I wouldn’t have been so exhausted by the end of it.

Besides sleep deprivation, I also need to recover from from
a few scars, literal scars. One from
a little nip at my ear during one play session, another from a big scratch on
my leg, and several little dots on my hand from our tug-of-war sessions when
she missed the toy and got my hand instead.

I’m certain that someday I will welcome a full-time dog back
into my life. I’m also certain that it
won’t be a puppy. Not that I don’t love
puppies, clearly I do. But part of the
appeal of retirement was doing what I want to do when I want to do it. Puppies don’t really let you do that.

But in the meantime, I will definitely welcome Stella back
into our home any time her family leaves town.

August 01, 2013

Ok all you dog lovers—this is Stella. Stella doesn’t really like it when I play the
piano, but she doesn’t seem to mind if I write a blog post. Stella is in my care for the week. My former boss is out of town, and like many
of my former bosses, he knows the best place to kennel his favorite canine is
at my house. She may return home with a
few more bad habits, but you know for sure she was showered with love and
affection.

For all those of you that have been cheering for me to get a
new puppy, I’m not sure this is convincing me.
She is incredibly cute, amazingly cuddly, and really well behaved for
such a young pup. But taking care of a puppy is a full-time job! When she’s awake holding her stuffed puppy in her mouth, I chase her around chanting, “I’m gonna getcha.” When she tires of that, I play tug of war
with her and when I win, I throw it across the yard shouting, “go get it,” while
she gallops through the grass. Actually,
it’s not a gallop; it’s more like a bunny hop.

When she’s asleep, I try to do quiet things that won’t wake
her up, like writing a blog post, not piano, as I mentioned earlier. I even have to make an appointment to take a
shower. I need Doug to make sure she’s
not doing anything naughty while I’m not around.
So just like with a job, I’m squeezing all the normal parts of my life into
the space that fits someone else’s schedule. All while making sure she doesn’t pee on the
carpet.

Ok, she’s a pretty cute boss and it’s way more fun than
sitting at a desk eight hours a day. But
you know what I mean. It’s a little
limiting. Oh, and a lot exhausting.